In the Warrior’s Bed (27 page)

“Please, Cullen. If ye hang him here at Sterling, no one will believe any of this happened. Ye will be called worse than blackguard.”

He growled softly, his hands framing her face. “I can see that ye are going to be nothing but trouble for me, now that ye know how soft me heart is for ye.”

“No more so than ye are to me, since ye are in possession of mine.”

He gently rubbed her head, tucking the hair that had been pulled loose in her struggle with Liam behind her ears. “I plan to keep it, lass, and that’s a promise.”

“I’m glad ye keep yer promises, Cullen.”

A soft chuckle left his throat, but his eyes remained hard. There was the scuff of boot leather on the stone floor as the McJames retainers responded. They filled the chapel with their swords unsheathed. They surrounded Keir, suspicion evident on their faces. Cullen left her to protect her brother. Bronwyn stood and watched, silly happiness filling her.

If that was the insanity of love, she was a willing victim.

Sodac was gone.

Bronwyn hurried to keep up with her husband and brother. The men rushed toward the hall, only to discover that Sodac had cleared the gate. He must have fled the second the bells began ringing.

Such an action confirmed his guilt.

Keir cursed before heading toward the yard. “I’ve got to beat that bastard to Red Stone or I’ll have to besiege me own home.”

“I’m going with ye.”

Cullen followed her brother, Brodick joining them, along with Druce.

The yard became a mass of activity, boys and men all running to get the horses out of the stable. Keir didn’t bother with a saddle. He swung up onto the bare back of his stallion and headed toward the gate, the three McQuade retainers following him. Cullen was two paces behind. Bronwyn didn’t know whose horse she took and didn’t care if they swore she stole it. She was going with them.

The main body of the men Liam had brought with him was camped over the first rise. It was in pandemonium when they crested the hill, some of the men disappearing over the next rise. Keir reined in long enough to address the remaining men.

“Sodac is a murdering bastard who planned to poison our sister. I saw it with me own eyes. Follow me if ye be honorable men.”

Astonishment held the men in silence for a long moment. One noticed her and pointed at her. Suddenly every set of McQuade eyes was aimed at her.

“My marriage will bring peace to every McQuade.”

The McQuade men sent up a cheer and swung into their saddles. Keir spurred his horse forward, riding as though the devil himself was on his heels after Sodac and the men following him. Cullen hesitated, reaching out to grab her reins.

“Ye dinna belong here, Bronwyn.” Fury coated his features along with fear. She stared at that fear. Only she did that to him.

“This is my fight, too, Cullen. Our fight. We’ll only win it side by side.”

He cursed. He looked at Keir and the McQuade men following behind him. With a sharp command he took the McJames retainers after them. McJames men surrounded her, keeping her in their center.

But she never felt her temper rise. Instead she looked ahead of her to where Cullen was closing the distance between Keir and himself. Argyll stretched out his longer legs, using the powerful chest to fuel his charge up the rise. McJames and McQuade plaids mingled and merged into a single body of men all focused on one goal.

Sodac turned to face the force bearing down on him. A third of the men on his heels had stronger horses and he didn’t have enough of a head start to outrun them. The moon cast a white glow all around them. No torches had been lit but the snow reflected the moonlight. In the silver light there was no telling McQuade from McJames. There were only the two forces facing each other.

“Hold!” Keir’s voice echoed across the distance. Her brother rode out in front of the men to face his sibling, Cullen joining him. But the retainers surrounding her refused to allow her any closer, one of them yanking the reins from her grasp.

“Forgive me, mistress, but I canna allow ye into harm’s way.”

She didn’t have time to quarrel with him. Keir raised his sword and pointed it toward his brother.

“Sodac! Ye plotted murder of our sister. I heard it with my own ears.”

“Ye’re a traitor to every McQuade, Keir.” Sodac unsheathed his own sword. “She bedded a McJames, making her a McJames. Killing her is our duty before the king demands her dowry. This marriage will take McQuade land and make it McJames land.”

Some of the men behind Sodac looked confused. A few shook their heads, clearly disagreeing with the man they rode with. Keir moved closer.

“Bronwyn’s marriage will end decades of strife that drains McQuade resources. She has honored her position as the laird’s daughter by embracing a union that puts everyone’s welfare first. It will end the fighting that lays our comrades in early graves.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the men behind Keir as well as many in front of him.

Keir pointed at Cullen. “Cullen McJames is now my brother by marriage.”

“
Bastard!
”

Sodac charged toward Keir, screaming obscenities. Few men followed him. There was the sound of metal hitting metal, and screams of men who were run through. In the space of two minutes, Sodac and his followers lay on the snow, their blood turning it dark. The retainers surrounding her released her once the night went quiet once again. Bronwyn kneed her horse forward, guiding it around the fallen bodies of her brother’s supporters. A lump lodged in her throat when she looked at the waste. It was her father’s final legacy.

She swore that it would be. For the first time in her life, being Erik McQuade’s daughter meant something good. She rode up until she was beside her husband. Keir’s blade was darkened with blood, but so was Cullen’s. The two men blew white puffs of breath into the winter night, their breathing harsh from the battle.

All eyes turned to her. Bronwyn sat proudly in the saddle next to her husband. Some things were better seen than heard.

Keir turned to face them. “I’ll ride for court in the morning. Jamie will need to hear of this from my own lips.”

“Aye, ye’ve the right of that…brother.” Cullen reached up and tugged on the corner of his bonnet. The respectful gesture gained him a cheer from the watching McQuades. Keir returned it to the delight of the McJames.

Cullen reached across the space between them and pulled her onto Argyll. Male amusement surrounded her, including her husband’s. He clamped her tightly against his body before turning around toward Sterling.

He could have let her ride her own horse.

Bronwyn laughed at her own pride. Aye, he could have, but it was so much better that he didn’t.

Later that night she cried. Actual tears eased down her cheeks.

“Now dinna look like that. I canna bear it. ’Tis only a dress.” Cullen sounded tired. He leaned against the back of a chair, a faint paleness to his face. Brodick McJames hadn’t been willing to take any chances on there being more poison. He’d sent to the kitchen for purgatives for everyone at the high table. In spite of already losing the contents of her stomach, she’d been fed the noxious concoction the cook had produced.

There wasn’t a shred of strength left in her now. The tears flowed from her eyes because her new dress was destroyed, blood staining the doublet and skirt. Even soaking would not save it—there was too much, and blood stained like nothing else.

“It was my only dress.”

Cullen sighed, clearly frustrated.

Two more fat tears eased from the corners of her eyes. “I shall have to go to court in that surcoat. There is no time to make another dress.”

“Dinna cry, lass. It breaks my heart.”

He stood up and walked into the small antechamber attached to the main one they slept in. He reappeared with a chest. It was a large wooden one that had a lock on it. Cullen fit a key into it. He raised the lid and pulled the green dress that she’d been loaned at White Tower from it.

“Ye brought it with ye?”

Bronwyn hugged the skirt and bodice to her chest for a long moment, slightly amazed that she could love something that she had once despised.

“It wounded my pride the way ye married me in yer chemise. It’s the truth that I wanted to see ye dependent on me for everything after that.” Cullen smiled at her. “I was even jealous of me own cousin for getting ye a dress.”

He grinned at her. “I’ll be happy to shower ye with dresses once we reach Edinburgh.”

He gently pulled the skirts away from her and hung them over the back of the chair. Turning back, he offered his hand to her. It was a beautiful thing, that offer. The power of choice made her bold and she laid her hand into his with a flirtatious smile. Cullen winked at her before leaning over and tossing her right over his shoulder.

She bounced in a jumble of arms and legs when he dumped her into the center of their bed. He followed her, his large body warm and hard against her own. His lips seeking hers in a kiss that drove away everything but the delight their skin made when it connected.

1603

T
he court of James of Scotland was pensive. As winter held the country in its grip, rumors of the impending death of the English queen circulated. Elizabeth Tudor was ill and every rider who approached the court was cause for attention. She had ruled longer than any other monarch—both English and Scot—but her time was near. She would do one last thing with her death, and that was to unite two countries that had warred with one another for centuries. James Stuart would wear the crown of both countries, making it one.

Bronwyn set up house in the McJames city house while her husband awaited permission to attend court.

“Mistress Bronwyn, the tailor is come to see ye.” Sybil lowered herself before shepherding in a party of men all intent on staring at her. Assistants followed them, their arms heavy with bolts of fabric. There were French silks and damasks, rare velvet, and costly brocades. Bobbin lace and trims that must have taken months of work to make were laid out for her inspection.

“I dinna need such things.” But her voice lacked conviction. She reached out to touch one silk, too tempted by its luxury to resist feeling it at least once.

“I need them.” Cullen spoke from the doorway, drawing a sigh from the tailor and his entourage. His blue eyes met hers across the space of the dining room. “I’ve a great need to escort ye into court dressed as finely as a lady of Sterling should be.” He closed the distance and grasped her hand. Rising it to his lips, he placed a soft kiss on the back of it that sent heat into her cheeks. His keen stare focused on the crimson stain for a moment. “We’ve a history to repeat.”

“And what do ye mean by that?”

Her husband winked before turning to toss a small bag onto the table. It landed in the middle of the fabric with a clink that was unmistakable. The tailor’s eyes lit up at the sound of gold.

“Why, to promote gossip, dear wife. We must give the wagging tongues something new to report about us. Think of the commotion we shall cause if ye stroll by my side with a smile on yer lips.”

“Ye are being naughty.”

He reached out and tugged some of her hair. A frown appeared on his face when Sybil’s braiding kept his hand from gaining anything but a few wisps. His gaze returned to hers. “Hmm, I’ll have to finish this tonight.” There was a twinkle in his eye that sent a shiver down her spine.

She did enjoy the way the man kept his word…

He paused in the doorway and shot the tailor a stern look. “Something befitting a new bride. We are summoned in two days.”

Brute…

Her lips curved into a smile as she thought the word. Aye, Cullen McJames was indeed an arrogant brute. But he was much more than that, too. He was a caring husband who provided well for her and his people. There was honor in him and she found that more attractive than anything else. Honor would never age, it would shine forever.

She followed her husband into the great receiving hall of the Scottish court two days later. Her gown shimmered in the candlelight, the silk rustling with every step. Lace fans snapped open as they passed, the whispers rising in volume.

James Stuart awaited them with his queen. Princess Elizabeth stood near her mother, smiling with the contentment of childhood. But Bronwyn hesitated in the aisle before they made it to the end where her king was receiving. A familiar face caught her attention. Bishop Shaman nodded his head toward her from across the way.

“So yer bishop is here as well, I see.”

Cullen’s face flushed a tiny bit. “Jamie made me promise that ye’d wed me willingly. He’ll want a witness for that.”

“Is that so?” She narrowed her eyes.

Cullen grinned like a boy once more. “Are ye no even impressed with my cunning?”

“Yer a brute.”

“Aye, but I keep my promises.” He pulled her closer, uncaring for the rise in conversation as he placed a soft kiss on her lips right in public. “And I promise to love ye, Bronwyn McQuade. Until the day I die.”

“Now that is something I plan to hold ye to.”

“I hope so, lass. I truly do.”

Love…insanity or not, it was perfection.

Here’s a sneak peek at Donna Kauffman’s

HERE COMES TROUBLE, out now from Brava!

T
he hot, steamy shower felt like heaven on earth as it pounded his back and neck. He should have done this earlier. It was almost better than sleep. Almost. He’d realized after Kirby had left that he’d probably only grabbed a few hours after arriving, and he’d fully expected to be out the instant his head hit the pillow again. But that hadn’t been the case. This time it hadn’t been because he was worried about Dan, or Vanetta, or anyone else back home, or even wondering what in the hell he thought he was doing this far from the desert. In New England, for God’s sake. During the winter. Although it didn’t appear to be much of one out here.

No, that blame lay right on the lovely, slender shoulders of Kirby Farrell, innkeeper, and rescuer of trapped kittens. Granted, after the adrenaline rush of finding her hanging more than twenty feet off the ground by her fingertips, it shouldn’t be surprising that sleep eluded him, but that wasn’t entirely the cause. Maybe he’d simply spent too long around women who were generally over-processed, over-enhanced, and overly made up, so that meeting a regular, everyday ordinary woman seemed to stand out more.

It was a safe theory, anyway.

And yet, after only a few hours under her roof, he’d already become a foster dad to a wild kitten and had spent far more time thinking about said kitten’s savior than he had his own host of problems.

Maybe it was simply easier to think about someone else’s situation. Which would explain why he was wondering about things like whether or not Kirby could make a go of things with her new enterprise here, what with the complete lack of winter weather they were having. And what her story was before opening the inn. Was this place a lifelong dream? For all he knew, she was some New England trust fund baby just playing at running her own place. Except that didn’t jibe with what he’d seen of her so far.

He’d been so lost in his thoughts while enjoying the rejuvenation of the hot shower, that he clearly hadn’t heard his foster child’s entrance into the bathroom. Which was why he almost had a heart attack when he turned around to find the little demon hanging from the outside of the clear shower curtain by its tiny, sharp nails, eyes wide in panic.

After his heart resumed a steady pace, he bent down to look at her, eye-to-wild-eye. “You keep climbing things you shouldn’t and one day there will be no one to rescue you.”

He was sure the responding hiss was meant to be ferocious and intimidating, but given the pink-nosed, tiny, whiskered face it came out of, not so much. She hissed again when he just grinned, and started grappling with the curtain when he outright laughed, mangling it in the process.

He swore under his breath. “So, I’m already down one sweater, a shower curtain, and God knows what else you’ve dragged under the bed. I should just let you hang there all tangled up. At least I know where you are.”

However, given that the tiny thing had already had one pretty big fright that day, he sighed, shut off the hot, life-giving spray, and very carefully reached out for a towel. After a quick rubdown, he wrapped the towel around his hips, eased out from the other end of the shower, and grabbed a hand towel. “We’ll probably be adding this to my tab, as well.” He doubted Kirby’s guests would appreciate a bath towel that had doubled as a kitty straitjacket.

“Come on,” he said, doing pretty much the same thing he’d done when the kitten had been attached to the front of Kirby. “I know you’re not happy about it,” he told the now squalling cat. “I’m not all that amped up, either.” He looked at the shredded curtain once he’d de-pronged the demon from the front of it and shuddered to think of just how much damage it had done to the front of Kirby.

“Question is…what do I do with you now?”

Just then a light tap came on the door. “Mr. Hennessey?”

“Brett,” he called back.

“I…Brett. Right. I called. But there was no answer, so—”

“Oh, shower. Sorry.” He walked over to the door, juggled the kitty bundle, and cracked the door open.

Her gaze fixed on his chest and then scooted down to the squirming towel bundle, right back up to his chest, briefly to his face, then away all together. “I’m—sorry. I just, you said…and dinner is—anyway—” She frowned. “You didn’t take the cat, you know, into—” She nodded toward the room behind him. “Did something happen?”

“I was in the shower. Shredder here decided to climb the curtain because apparently she’s not happy unless she’s trying to find new ways to terrify people.”

He glanced from the kitten to Kirby’s face in time to see her almost laugh and then compose herself. “I’m sorry, really. I shouldn’t have let you keep her in the first place. I mean, not that you can’t, but you obviously didn’t come here to rescue a kitten. I should—we should—just leave you alone.” She reached out to take the squirmy bundle from him.

“Does that mean I don’t get dinner?”

“What?” She looked up, got caught somewhere about chest height, then finally looked at his face. “I mean, no, no, not at all. I just—I hope you didn’t have your heart set on pot roast. There were a few…kitchen issues. Minor, really, but—”

“I’m not picky,” he reassured her. What he was, he realized, was starving. And not just for dinner. If she kept looking at him like that…well, it was making him want to feed an entirely different kind of appetite. In fact…He shut that mental path down. His life, such as it was, didn’t have room for further complications. And she’d be one. Hell, she already was. “I shouldn’t have gotten you to cook anyway. You’ve had quite a day, and given what The Claw here did to your—
my
—shower curtain—I’ll pay for a new one—I can only imagine that you must need more medical attention than I realized.”

“Don’t worry about that, I’m fine. Here,” she said, reaching out for the wriggling towel bundle. “Why don’t I go ahead and take her off your hands. I can put her out on the back porch for a bit, let you get, uh, dressed.”

Really, she had to stop looking at him like that. Like he was a…a pot roast or something. With gravy. And potatoes. Damn he was really hungry. Voraciously so. Did she have any idea how long he’d been on the road? With only himself and the sound of the wind for company? Actually, it had been far longer than that, but he really didn’t need to acknowledge that right about now.

Then she was reaching for him, and he was right at that point where he was going to say the hell with it and drag her into the room and the hell with dinner, too…only she wasn’t reaching for him. She was reaching for the damn kitten. He sort of shoved it into her hands, then shifted so a little more of the door was between them…and a little less of a view of the front of his towel. Which was in a rather revealing situation at the moment.

“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it. I’ll go down—
be down
—in just a few minutes.” He really needed to shut this door. Before he made her nervous. Or worse. I mean, sure, she was looking at him like he was her last supper, but that didn’t mean she was open to being ogled in return by a paying guest. Especially when he was the only paying guest in residence. Even if that did mean they had the house to themselves. And privacy. Lots and lots of privacy. “Five minutes,” he blurted, and all but slammed the door in her face.

Crap, if Dan could see him at the moment, he’d be laughing his damn ass off. As would most of Vegas. Not only did Brett happen to play high stakes poker pretty well, but the supporters and promoters seemed to think he was also a draw because of his looks. And no, he wasn’t blind, he knew he’d been relatively blessed, genetically speaking, for which he was grateful. No one would choose to be ugly. A least he wouldn’t think so.

But while the looks had come naturally, that whole bad boy, cocky attitude vibe that was supposed to go with it had not. Not that he was shy. Exactly.

He was confident in his abilities, what they were, and what they weren’t. But confidence was one thing. Arrogance another. And just because women threw themselves at him didn’t mean he was comfortable catching them. Mostly due to the fact that he was well aware that women weren’t throwing themselves at him because of who he was. But because of what he was. Some kind of quasi-poker rock star. They were batting eyelashes, thrusting cleavage, and passing phone numbers and room keys because of his fame, his fortune, his ability to score freebies from hotels and sponsors, and somewhere on that list, probably his looks weren’t hurting him, either.

Nowhere on the list, however, did it appear that getting to know the guy behind the deck of cards and the stacks of chips was of any remote interest.

And there lay the irony.